
Class 
Book. 



r^S3 67/- 



CopyiiglitTSl^,. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




See page 46 



Ballads of 
The Western Mines 

and Others 



BY 



ANTHONY FITCH 




Cochrane Publishing Company 
Tribune Building- 
New York 
1910 






Copyright, 1910, by 
Cochrane Publishing Co. 



©CIA261319 



"^ 






To the Four Miners and their Two Helpers, this Book 

is Dedicated. 

here's to the miner, 

The miner for me ! 

Be he self-made manager, 

Or with his degree, 

He's the first in the land. 

With his silver and gold. 

Iron, copper and lead, 

Young, middle or old. 

He gives to the world 

The best that there is; 

He 's the source of the progress — 

Broadness is his. 

For through him the markets 

Have their rise and their fall. 

The future is his — 

He's the cream of them all. 

So here's to the miner, 

Be he Saxon or Celt, 

He's the man that does things 

And gets the result. 



THE FIND OF A TENDERFOOT 

What is it makes the Tenderfoot a power in the West? 
What is it makes the Westerner aghast and fearful lest 
His standards low be brought to light, his wiliness 

undone ? 
Where honesty comes running in the race is always won, 
A Tenderfoot came in and viewed this grassless land 

one day, 
And saw a godless heap of things — a mining camp, 

they say. 
One mine for years had yielded naught but disappoint- 
ment keen; 
They'd searched for ore and dug for ore but still it 

lay unseen; 
But the Tenderfoot came afar into this Western land, 
Mid sage-brush and the wild winds and the mountains 

took his stand. 
And he flung old ways to right and left, and made the 

dead things leap, 
And thousands then came tumbling out of ore, from its 

hidden deep. 
He'd found it, yes he had found it, from those who 

ne'er could find, 
And it became the chief of all of any of its kind. 
And he loved it as it grew, and thought of those it 

ought to give 
Returns for faith, as strong as the desire we have to live. 
And the mystery of the mountain standing there 

through timeless age 
Has been the Father of it all written on Earth's first page ; 
And sentinel through time he's stood to guard his 

secret fast. 
Until the coming of the one he's waited for at last. 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Tommy Knockers 15 

Man Has a Soul of Beauty Yearning 16 

Side Hill Lancers 17 

The South Swansea Claim 19 

Only a Beggar 22 

Life 23 

A Dream 24 

A Soul's Lament 25 

Truth 26 

Music 27 

Jeanne D 'Arc 31 

The World is Millions of Worlds 33 

Santa Maria Novella 34 

St. Cecelia 36 

The Dedication of a Cathedral 38 

Supremacy 40 

The Wait of the West 42 

The Joy of Life 45 

I Was Not of Their Kind 46 

The Atlantic Isle ' 47 

The Birth of the Rose 48 

Imperfection 50 

Regret 52 

Let No Man Put Asunder 54 

The Dream of The Prospector 56 

A Mood 59 

The Man Who Wants It All 60 

Illusions 62 

Working His Way 64 

The Call of the West 67 

Faith and Hope 68 



Ballads of Western Mines and Others 



TOMMY KNOCKERS. 

'Av you 'eard of the Tommy Knockers 
In the deep dark mines of the West, 
Which the Cornish miners 'ear? 
An' 'tis no laughin' jest. 
For I am a Cornish miner. 
An' I'll tell you of it today. 
The knock-knock-knock of a tiny pick 
As we work in the rocks an' clay. 

We go down in the skips with our huckets, 
With 'earts which nothing fazes, 
Each with a candle to light the way 
Through the tunnels, winzes an' raises. 
And the stale air smells of powder, 
An' the mine is full of sound, 
But 'tis only the noise of the Tommy Knockers 
Which make our 'earts rebound. 

Pick, pick, pick. 

'As some one be'ind us knocked, 

Pick, pick, pick — 

No. *tis souls of dead miners locked. 

For they're locked in the earthen wall. 

Those that found death down there, 

And 'tis the knock-knock-knock of their pick 

W'ich makes on end stand our 'air. 

15 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 

An* we leave the 'aunted place, 

For we won't work w'ere they be, 

An' we'erever we 'ear them knockin' 

We sure will always flee. ' 

For it means w'o ever 'ears it 

Will be the next in line, 

For the pick-pick of the Tommy Knockers 

Is the last an' awful sign. 



MAN HAS A SOUL OF BEAUTY YEARNING. 

Man has a soul of beauty yearning, 
That which longs for the best, 
But does that soul in its earnest striving 
Do what is right in the quest? 

As long as the mountains have soared from the valleys, 

As long as the stars have shone, 

The most exquisite that Nature has given 

Have woe and discord sown. 

Is it that the desire is so strong in man 
That he tramples the means in the soil, 
That he sees naught but the shining end 
Until he has gained his spoil? 

'Tis the struggle of the immortal self, 
With its deadly mortal foe; 
Oh, the blindness of the creature, 
And the trailing path of woe! 

16 



MINES AND OTHERS 

SIDE-HILL LANCERS. 

Do you know a side- 'ill lancer? 'Tis between a beast 

and a bird, 
Lives on the side of mountains in the West, 
With two legs short and two legs long. 
'E only can do any wrong 
To those w'o live on 'ill sides in the West, 
An' it 'appens to the miners in the countree to the 

West, 
O'er the mountains w'en 'er shadows 'gin to grow, 
W'en the day is most adone. 
And 'e's out for all 'is fun, 
Then it 'appens in this countree to the West. 

'E wonders w'ere 'e's goin' as 'e climbs into the 'ill 

An' stumbles over sagebrush an' the 'oles, 

But 'e's off 'gin on 'is spree — r 

'Appens once a day in three — 

Out in this bloomin' countree to the West. 

Oh, w'at fun the lancers 'av w'en they see 'im comin' 

up, 
For they know they got 'im now agoin' fast. 
'E sees thim comin' at 'im 'ard. 
'E cries, ' ' Oh, save me, save me, pard. ' ' 
But die echoes in this countree to the West. 

17 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 

An 'e sees this side 'ill lancer with 'is two short legs 

up 'ill, 
With two long ones on the down side runnin' fast, 
An' round the 'ill 'e reels, 
With the lancer at 'is 'eels, 
In this fragrant sagebrush countree to the West. 
If you listen w'en the wind blows on you just at close 

of day 
You can 'ear the lancer goin' round and round, 
Chasin' the miner on 'is spree, 
For only 'e can see, 
This side 'ill lancer in this countree West. 

'E cannot catch 'im on the plain if 'e'd only run down 

quick, 
But round and round and round and round 'e goes. 
So don't go on the 'ill 
In the evenin' at the still. 
For sure 'e'll get you in this countree West. 




18 



MINES AND OTHERS 



THE SOUTH SWANSEA CLAIM. 

They talks of the Swansea claim, 
Of the luck of the Silver camp, 

Way back in the early 'eighties 
Of the candle and kerosene lamp. 

They talks of Little Billie 
With 'is 'appy-go-lucky way. 

Who wanted to vote with the rest 
An' 'av 'is political say. 

Unless 'e owned a claim 
'E couldn't vote, 'e found, 

So 'e started out one morn 

To stake an' own some ground. 

An' 'e walked out in the sagebrush, 

Over the sandy waste, 
With prairie-dogs yelpin' at 'im, 

Pallin' in 'oles in 'aste. 

And the sky looked blue above 'im. 
An' the coyotes smiled as 'e passed, 

'Til 'e saw two stakes a-standin' 
Before 'is eyes at last. 

They were the end stakes of a claim. 

So Billy 'e says to 'imself 
I'll use them for end stakes, too, 

At last I'm off the shelf. 



19 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 

So from there 'e paced 'is claim, 
Then found some old Grease-wood 

To stake the other end — . 

*E'd made it as well as 'e could. 

A Western year passed by, 

With its riots an' killin' down 
At the Bucket-of-Blood, the saloon 

Of the only repute in town. 

And oh, the fun they 'ad, 

Drinkin' down their whisky an' rum, 
An' shootin' up an' down 

Puttin' everything on the bum. 

So the Western year passed by, 

An' to keep 'is little claim 
Little Billy 'ad to work it 

And 'e gave it South Swansea for name. 

An' he piled up high the dirt, 

An' sang in 'is merry way, 
And the riders passin' by 

Joshed 'im day by day. 

An' he sang of the mountain birds, 

An' 'e sang of 'is pretty gal, 
Waitin' 'til 'e made 'is fortune 

As 'e tossed up the rocfe m* the shale. 

20 



MINES AND OTHERS 

The assessment work was done, 
W 'ich the law asks each year on the land, 

An' another went sailin' onward 
To join the waitin* band. 

Into the past it 'ad dropped, 
An' again to the sandy plain 

Little Bill went a-muckin' 
To the old-time sunny refrain. 

Deeper an' deeper 'e dug, 

'Til big drops dripped from 'is brow, 
Wen " 'oly gee, I believe 

It's the stuff! won't it make a row?" 

Now if Billie 'ad been wise 

'Ef'd bought up the neighborin' claim. 
But Little Bill 'ad been joshed too much, 

So to camp 'e clamerin' came. 

An' the town boys blew up the town. 
There never was another night, 

Next mornin' no whisky left — 
Was it ever in such a plight ? 

An' tons came tumbling out. 
An' 'e worked it to the core. 

With silver an' gold an' lead 
Of the 'ighest valued ore. 

An' now 'e's a millionaire, 

Is Billy the 'appy-go-luck, 
An' 'is mine's the richest strike 

In Silver that's ever been struck. 



21 



BAILAM OP WmTPM 



ONLY A BEGGAR. 

Only a beggar on the street 

With aching heart and tired feet, 

But the world passes the outstretched hand; 

Unnoticed from dawn to eve he'll stand. 

Only a beggar — who is he? 

A man or a woman we scorn to see, 

Holding our breath and skirts as we pass — 

Without heart, without soul, without thought, alas. 

Only a beggar, he is born 

To a life without pleasure hope, forlorn. 

To a hovel, a floor, a bundle of rags, 

From his birth to his grave his wretched life drags. 

Some lives flow on 'midst trees and flowers. 
With now and then some April showers, 
When April showers come heavily down 
Then think of those they almost drown. 

The weary, weary toil of life. 
The dreary, dreary days of strife, 
Oh, help them, careless passer-by — 
'Tis but a day before you die. 

He's only a beggar on the street — 
He's only a beggar with tired feet, 
But they have souls and lives to live — 
'Tis but a mite you have to give. 

22 



MINEB AND OTHEBS 



LIFE. 

'Tis a-pushin' an' a-crushin', 
An' a-leapin' an' a-rushin', 
An' aside the others brushin', 
To be first in the mad race ; 
An' oh, the beatin' gall of him, 
An' oh, the awful fall of thim 
Who cannot with their life an' vim 
Keep up the maddened pace. 

'Tis a-sprintin' an' a-tumblin'. 
An' a-scramblin' an' a-stumblin'. 
An' like a distant rumblin' 
When the pistol shot is fired. 
An oh, the breathless run of him 
An' the weary faintin' time of thim 
Who 're coming from the distance dim 
Stickin' deeply mired. 

'Tis a-shovin and a-buckin', 
An' a-divin' an' a-duckin', 
An' a mighty lot of luck-in 
Whoever gets the ball ; 
An' number one is name of him 
Who takes the ball away from thim 
An' rushes down the field with vim 
An' wins without a fall. 



23 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



Tis a-rendin' an* a-tearin', 
An' a-burnin an' a-darin', 
For no one gets a share-in 
With the one who wins the race. 
An oh, the name of him who's it, 
With everyone he makes a hit; 
But just for once you see him quit, 
Then let him find his place. 



A DREAM. 

As flowers in spring feel the new sweet warmth, as the 

birds know when summer is nigh. 
As the spirit feels when something kindred thro' the 
universe goes by, 

So came the soul of her who seemed, 
The one of whom I 'd always dreamed. 

The perfume from the living rose, the sweetened air 

just after rain, 
The laughing music of the wind bringing sweet 
thoughts with its refrain. 

So lingered the soul of her who seemed 
The one of whom I'd always dreamed. 

A sunset fading in the West, a comet flashing through 

the night, 
A melody heard in the street, a noble thought now gone 
in flight. 

So went the soul of her who seemed, 
The one of whom I'd always dreamed. 

24 



MINES AND OTHERS 



A SOUL'S LAMENT. 

What is it that doth make thee groan, lone soul, 

What wave of hopeless fury seems to roll 

And crush thee 'neath a weight of icy chill? 

When hope has fled, what more? what hill 

To climb and look into the distant view 

Where unknown lieth in a radiant hue; 

But all around the hills are steep and high 

With rocks outcropping to the very sky ; 

The future seems an endless glacier field, 

Monotonous, slow-creeping, tightly sealed. 

Why shiver thou and feel so stony cold, 

And like the mountains bare seem worn and old? 

Art thou like one who boundless centuries 

Sat chained, whose sight knew naught but bounding 

seas 
And barren shores and lone and empty waste, 
Without one voice to break the stillness, faced 
Despair and sorrow? But there came a day. 
Canst dream, sad soul, there'll ever be a ray 
Of gladdened light poured on thy blankened page, 
Which shrinketh up as 'twere with hoary age? 
Thou starest full at thy bleak solitude, 
Naught knowing where to turn for strength 'ning food, 
Yet, lonely being, there's a place enjoyed. 
Soar thou thy spirit out into the void, 
There find grieved soul Infinitude^ — who knows? — 
And lifts thee gently from thy endless throes, 

25 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 

So keep thou there and let thou not 'gain fall 

Headlong once more, and be an earthly thrall. 

Oh, strength sublime! Stand firm, thou forlorn mind. 

Hope lost on earth ? Tis never thou wilt find ; 

If shrinking, cheerless, cold, thou It seek elsewhere, 

Oh, souls of earth, what weakness is thy share. 



TRUTH. 



To live where distance melts into a misty grey. 
To feel deep silence stalking round in endless sway, 
To see motionless mountain peaks of ghostly white, 
Then Truth speaks out from darkness into light. 
Changeless is Truth ; of Immortality 'twas born, 
But oft by that which changes name is daily worn, 
Mortals run to and fro with knowledge torches high 
Seeking that which all their energy does defy ; 
Truth with her wondrous light flees to the simple mind, 
And walks on with the lowly, leaving might behind; 
O'er sweeping earth she flings her torches here and 

there. 
Lighting the dying's way with strength of hope and 

prayer ; 
As riding on the clouds of morn and winds of night 
She sees the lost ones seek their way on _ mountain 

height. 
But search the valley of beauty, not cold hill peak, 
Go with the open mind in God's own country seek. 
She will take you in blindness and light your stumbling 

way, 
O Truth, who is changeless, immutable, give day. 

26 



MlNm AND OTEEBS 



MUSIC. 

In dreamy valleys, on the hills o'erclad. 

With luscious vine and song and merriment, 

They lived or rather whiled their time away. 

With dance, as if their one abode for aye. 

They had a soul, these folk, but knew it not ; 

A soul of music, poetry and all 

The finer higher things which raiseth man 

From this stained sphere of ours; they danced, they 

sang, 
In music's mystic moods e'en dwelt forever. 
Oh, age remote, descend as in a dream. 
Hasten, Saliope, thou sweet-voiced muse. 
And hold me by thy long lost song entranced; 
Let weep with thee, aild dream and laugh, and soar 
Far from this earth aloft to highest heav'n; 
And when thou'rt We^ry and thy voice is hushed. 
Come, Clio, with dramatic sway of war 
Song superb, on crashing through the thunder 
Swift passing misty hitherworlds in lightning ; 
While Terpsichore, thou of wildest dance, 
O'er whirl me through the unknown sphere, through 

space, 
Aye on and on, 'til all the fiery soul 
Is burned and scorched, and will yet rest awhile 
To gain its madness o'er again. Soft sing 
To me, Erato, the low air of love. 
And wile the soul into an ecstasy 
Of longing, to a quivering spirit tense. 

27 



BALLADS OF WESTERN MINES AND OTHERS 

There, where the great beyond seems endless, with 

Sublime mystery of beauty, ever 

Raising high the drooping spirit mortal 

To an immortal glance, a feeling deep 

As the ocean, which moans and moans and tells 

The end, the dissolution of all things, 

Now join our hands and dance. Music, which you 

On sent into the void, return with sweet, 

And chastened sound, and whirl round us until 

Apollo foregoes his lyre in fierce joy 

To play with harmony ; and beings all 

Dissolve in that celestial melody 

And ever float, perfection infinite, ' 

As one into Eternal Mystery. 



28 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 




MINES AND OTHERS 



JEANNE D'ARC. 

Brave Maid of Orleans, what battle din and clashings 

bellow down through all the years ; 
A miracle wrought through the natural course, long 

sought by many supplicating tears, 
When France, no longer France, merely a province 

nigh to fall, oppressed by leaden fears. 
Is saved by a child, in her garden a call through the 

country air, and the Archangel Michael appears. 

Go, save thy country, Jeanne d'Arc; what meant 

those words? what terror brought they to her 
simple heart ! 

Months passed by, soon courage grew; her mission 
learned, she was bidden now to start. 

Discouragement was great ... th^y laughed ... a 
maid to rescue France, a deliverer thou art? 

But her voices urged her onward, and like many a for- 
lorn spirit she dwelt a soul apart. 

When lo, the great scene changes, clash of steel and in 

the midst of sword and souls on fire. 
Whirled white banner, white horse with daring rider 

in white-armored male attire, 
With face so stern and pure, her soldiers hushed their 

foul tongues, and crushed each bad desire. 
Her eyes alight with strength of victory while hopes 

of France soared higher, ever higher. 

31 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 

Triumphal day, the young king crowned 'mid acclama- 
tions loud, while stood the simple Maid, 

Before the great strong throng, echoing loud their 
praise on praise as adoring homage paid. 

E'en to all leaders comes the great day, dreamed and 
longed and worked for, no matter if years delayed, 

But earthly glory was naught to Jeanne . . . 'Twas 
not her power, but heavenly voices obeyed. 

All things on earth a zenith reach, to some a glory 
spreading o'er the sphere, 

To those the ebb oft carries bitter darkness to the soul, 
an end of utter drear. 

From afar the warrior maid saw the cloud down low'r- 
ing, but duty knew no fear. 

The end came on . . . her orders disobeyed . . . sur- 
rounded, taken with a coarsened jeer. 

Courage, courage. Jeanne, the crown awaits thee where 

there is no pain . . . thy work is o'er. 
Her face is white, shining with strength, with faith, 

with hope, her eyes on One who'd gone before. 
A great sob rises from the breathless crowd . . . but 

none can aid . . . around the great flames roar ; 
'Tis done — caressing winds onsweep with the fleeing 

soul, hitherward to the unknown shore. 



32 



MINES AND OTHERS 



THE WORLD IS MILLIONS OF WORLDS. 

The world is millions of worlds in one, 
Each soul in the depths of his own ; 
One never knows what the other thinks, 
From intimate touch the Immortal shrinks, 
Living itself alone. 

In a dream I see the spirits pass 

With sorrows and joys and tears, 

But he with the tear on his soul as he goes 

Laughs with the world, and nobody knows, 

Knows nor cares nor hears. 

Each sees the sunset's silver lake 

With islands of mystic clouds. 

But they stand and watch as it fades away 

Without one word, but who can say 

What heights it all enshrouds? 

Living itself alone, each soul, 

Living in the world of thought, 

Where things all pass as wondrous dreams. 

Where space in loveliness full teems 

With fancies finely wrought. 

It is a priceless thing, is soul. 

No matter seeming careless and light, 

But it is so serious and shy 

That we live alone, and alone we die. 

Countless beauties lie buried in night. 



33 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



SANTA MARIA NOVELLA. 

Long ages past those walls rang with the chants of men. 
Who realize that life is but a day, a night, and then 
An endless happiness for those who've done their share, 
Whether in the world or in the monastery bare. 

As some in worldly pursuits can attain their end, 
So others give up all, in prayer and good works spend 
Each hour, each day in labor and thankless exhortation. 
While the fool and frivolous scoff at them in an idiot 
oration. 

In fair Firenza there are cloisters still and lone. 

Go there, and through fancies like down of thistles 

blown. 
Rise dreamy thoughts of past, while all the chant again 
Sinks and rises, falls and swells in solemn low refrain. 

Comes the sound of sandaled feet from every door. 
Jingling beads and quiet laughter as of yore, 
Happy, happy faces, living strong good hours. 
Tilling field and pasture 'mid the sunshine and the 
showers. 

Through the Gothic arches flowers of every hue 

In uncut grass look upward to the hazy blue. 

While passing their evening hour round the mossened 

well, 
The Friars sit, until the call of the ancient tower bell. 



34 



MINES AND 0THEB8 

Tis here that wondrous Giotto spent many and many 

an hour,, 
Giving to the walls their frescoes, full of deep spiritual 

power. 
Gave to all the faces the lost look of the Divine, 
While from their faded colors beauties unpassed still 

shine. 

* 

So time does go, and all the silence speaking there 
Tells us that each thing departs sometime, somewhere, 
That all the centuries roll swiftly on and on, 
And makes our striving selves but seem so little, worn 
and wan. 

The ghosts of the past preach a sermon, a sermon writ- 
ten in stone. 

The stones of those Gothic arches and walls so faded 
and lone. 

They tell of the crumbling of earth hopes, of another 
more beautiful sphere, 

A place of immortal structure sublime, where thou- 
sands pass every year. 



35 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



ST. CECELIA. 



He dreamed he saw her sleeping, hidden far from light 

of day, 
Shadowed close by praying angels, in a narrow passage 

way, 
Through a haze of faintest music a voice through the 

night was borne, 
You will find her in the catacombs, in the greyness of 

the morn. 



They searched, and in an earthen wall a flickering taper 

lit, 
A cream-white marble sarcophagus with an inscription 

writ, 
That here lay the Saint Cecelia, who was martyred 

years agone. 
And they bore it gently upward into the reddening 

dawn. 



Reverently they loosed one slab and poured in the 

awakening day. 
Behold, as if but gone asleep, she there before them 

lay, 
A snow-white mantle over her, the face hidden from 

their gaze, 
The same cuts upon her slender neck as during those 

three last days. 

36 



MINES AND OTHERS 

It seemed as if the body, not unlike a dreaming flower, 
God had kept in all perfection to show His wondrous 

power, 
And that He wished some of His chosen souls to see 
A glimpse into the distant shore of immortality. 



Now in the Eternal City, in a basilica of ancient site, 
Built over her marble palace, which was but lately 

brought to light, 
Lies 'neath the altar, 'mid flickering lamps burning 

round, 
A breathing marble likeness of the saint as she was' 

found. 



And the sanctuary stillness, with the figure lying there, 
Fills all the heart with sweetness and the fullness of a 

prayer. 
During Mass intoned above her, as the light streams in 

each day, 
Her spirit seems among them as the silent people pray. 



While round the marble columns and in shadows here 
and there, 

'Mid frescoed roof and walls from which white won- 
drous figures stare, 

Floats the music of her voice o'er the hallowed atmos- 
phere, 

"Where the saint is venerated day by day through every 
year. 



37 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



THE DEDICATION OF A CATHEDRAL 



When beauty is bestowed it is but right 

In turn to give, although it is not quite 

As wondrous ; a temple was raised to God, 

Through tireless work it grew up from the sod. 

And stood in loveliness a massive thing 

Of stone and towers, gargoyles on the wing. 

Full generosity poured out its store. 

Beauteous colored windows flooded o'er 

The large expansa within. The great day eame^ — ■ 

'Twas dedicated to the One whose name 

Is quite forgotten in this restless day 

Of self, to whom some all their homage pay. 

Came worshipers and those who worship not, 

No matter what their station or their lot. 

At white altar the solemn Mystery 

Of Mass was intoned and read by the 

Good Bishop of broadcast and well-earned fame ; 

Round him assisted men of world-known name. 

There sat one of intellectual mien 

Esthetic face, whom many had ne 'er seen ; 

One of God 's representatives on earth ; 

A man of rounded gifts and untold worth. 

Another stood awhile before the throng 

And gave in finished oratory strong 

A sermon such as some had never heard. 

And through it all they barely breathed or stirred ; 

Each felt uplifted in his very soul. 

Oh, were there more whom God's work could extol! 

38 



MINES AND OTHERS 

The Mass went on, the music ne'er could be 
More beautiful; one soul whom none could see 
Must hovered round the organ as it rolled 
Its praise above; while each mind did enfold 
Religion in its spirit, and have brought 
Away with him a deeper, sterner thought. 
The angels must have triumphed on that day- 
A temple raised where many more can pray. 
So little in return it is to give 
To One who gives the world and life to live. 



39 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



SUPREMACY. 

Tis fight, fight, fight, 

Till all the glory is won, 

And fight, fight, fight. 

From the rise to the set of the sun. 

In city, country and town, 

From the highest to the farthest down, 

From sea to sea it will ever be. 

The soul-racking race for supremacy. 

In the wild the strongest live 
And tear the others to shreds. 
And the smaller the fish in the ocean 
The greater and fiercer its dreads. 
While the slaughter goes ever on 
From eve to greying dawn, 
For none can flee this propensity. 
The eternal strife for supremacy. 

The children in their home 

And the lover for his right 

Charge with their battle cry 

Of fight, fight, fight. 

Oh, 'tis fight, fight, fight 

'Til they stagger out of sight. 

As two in thr0e fall dead on the lea 

In the tearing rush for supremacy 

In business, commerce or gain 
Of any sort or kind, 
'Tis the weaker who is felled 
By the energetic mind. 



40 



MINES AND OTHERS 

And oh, the ways they plan 

To down the other man, 

The wrecks you see of humanity 

Who work for the god supremacy. 

To some it brings dishonor, 

To others a richly horde, 

To some disease of body. 

While many to death are bored. 

And as the ages go 

The fiercer the struggles grow, 

What misery they causelessly 

Strew on the way of supremacy! 

'Tisn't always an honest fight, 
But is filled with standards low, 
And seems the more dishonest 
The more the world lets go. 
So 'tis fight, fight, fight, 
To crush with all their might, 
But who is he living happily 
Ben£rath the flag of supremacy. 

Tis the royal road to progress — 

Give discovery its name, 

And invention with its wonders^- 

'Tis the path where travels fame. 

'Tjs the new-idea man 

Working out a better plan 

To honorably fight strong and tree 

To gain the good in supremacy; 



41 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 




THE WAIT OF THE WEST. 

For the West is West, with, its thousands of waiting 
women and men, 

Waiting in the burning desert, waiting in the hill- 
bound glen, 

Waiting on the snowy mountain, waiting on the smiling 
plain, 

Waiting in the pitiless city, waiting the hope of gain. 



42 



MINES AND OTHERS 

They will wait till the day of judgment for their mine 

of gold to come; 
'Tis the pitiless trick of fortune that deals but blanks 

to some ; 
They are toiling and watching and waiting till the 

reaper gathers them in, 
As it does not come to all this game of chance to win. 

Far over the Oquirrh mountains, in a valley of sage- 
brush and sands, 
With a lake out into the distance a wooden shanty 

stands, 
And it stands in the scorching light of the Western 

burning sun, 
With never a shade tree to hide it from the stars in 

their evening fun. 
And in this tiny shanty two people had lived for years. 
Waiting the call of fortune, waiting through smiles and 

tears, 
And they look into the future, the future of joy and 

hope, 
As they think of the ore in the earth and the shining 

glittering stope. 

Their claims lie all around them, with tunnel and hole 

and pit, 
But they say the ore lies deeper, down at a greater dip. 
And they wait with hope in their eyes and on their lips, 

'^Who'll buy?'' 
Which whispers through their hearts in a long and 

stifled cry, 

43 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 

And they wait for the men of wealth who venture into 

the West, 
To buy up all that 's rotten and some of the very best. 
And they dream of the glittering lodes at the deadening 

calm of night, 
And they dream of it all the day during the deathly 

light, 
And I wonder how long they will dream, this old couple 

out on the hill. 
For they have waited for years, and they are waiting 

still. 



44 



MINES AND 0THEB8 

THE JOY OF LIFE. 

Whirling, dancing, swaying, leaping far in spray and 

mist, 
Laughing gayly, singing madly as by the sunlight kissed, 
The world looked on and smiled as the waterfall 

plunged and sang. 
And its life entered the seething throng, into it 

throbbed and rang. 
A nightingale poured out its notes, and the wood in the 

maddened wild 
Shivered in mighty ecstasy, with the sportiveness of a 

child. 
Beneath a great pine tree in the deepest sheltering shade 
A pool lay there, so quietly that none around it strayed ; 
It grazed in silent happiness at the noisy, joyous earth, 
And drew into its hidden depths beauty and love and 

mirth. 
It lived a life all its own, and the world as it gayly 

passed 
Never knew of the stores of richness it had in its water 

soul, deep and vast ; 
It drank in the blue, blue sky, the secrets of the wood 

it heard. 
It buried down deep the most beautiful songs of the 

heavenly forest bird. 
There are lives which give their all, to fill the world 

with light; 
There are lives which drink in the best and live them 

out of sight. 
To each a mission is given if one wishes to seek and 

find- 
To the first a joy in the being, to the second a joy in 

the mind. ^c 

45 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



I WAS NOT OF THEIR KIND. 

Where the street winds into the mountain from one 
Western mining camp, 

You can hear through the fogs of the years a steady, 
ghostly tramp, 

The tramp of a morbid throng, the tramp of the man 
with death, 

The death that once came in the early days of which 
no one speaks above breath. 

They won't remember it now, but the gallows stands 
there still, 

To tell the tale of the hanging out on this desert hill ; 

These softened men now shudder to think, in their wild 
youth. 

They could have had once stony hearts with wills un- 
trained, uncouth. 

Tis not that they have changed much, but the law has 
stepped in the land 

And crushed them into meekness, this once unruly band. 

And on a stormy night the gallows shudders and creaks, 

And across the wind-swept mountains of cloudy sha- 
dows and streaks 

A voice through the dark cries for breath, and the gal- 
lows in the wierd light 

Seems to hold a man outswinging to and fro into the 
night. 

And you can see the morbid standing there as long ago, 

When he was strung up by a crowd always waiting for 
death and woe, 

46 



MINES AND OTHERS 

And the same voice calls for mercy, mercy from deadly 

foes, 
Is life so little heeding, a thing that comes and goes ? 
''There was no room for me — I was not of their kind. 
And they have pushed me out!" "Was conscience e'er 

so blind ? 
And the dreary weary voice is lost in a piercing moan, 
And the soul that once had life has again in silence 

flown. 
' ' I was never of their kind ! ' ' Was that his only crime ? 
The deadliest of the deadliest in that Western lawless 

time. 



THE ATLANTIC ISLE. 

Great land, what secrets lie within thy breast, 
Oh, tell to me what happened in the past, 
When waters on this earth were dried up fast. 
Ah, then a horde of men came from the West, 
Over a northern sea they marched in quest 
Of lands to rule, and made a kingdom vast ; 
One hundred centuries have since then passed, 
And still their ruins lie in silent rest. 
The gods were born within this land of ours, 
Great men adored and placed up in the sky. 
They sent across the seas their laws, and then 
They gave to all the earth their wondrous pow'rs 
But greater hordes came down, and now doth lie 
By mystery and tribes of red-skinned men. 

47 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



THE BIRTH OF THE ROSE. 

A FANTASY. 

Love, love, love, through a forest of pines sang the 

wind. 
Par back into the primitive, soon after the first had 

sinned, 
And it hushed its happy melody as, passing on its way. 
It saw a tiny earth-child dying where it lay. 

On the warm spring earth, 'mid flowers and all the 

moss and green. 
And picture clouds passing by in a blue sky all serene, 
Over her little one weeping the stricken mother bent, 
And listened to the wondrous dream that from heaven 

to earth was sent. 

"An angel came, oh, mother, and took me up and 

through 
A garden of flowers so lovely of just the sunset's hue, 
And the winds were all of music and the air was soft 

and still, 
Just like the evening when the sun sinks down behind 

the hill. 

And when he brought me back to earth he said he'd 

come again. 
Oh, little mother, weep not, for he'll take you with me 

then!" 
Sighing, sighing, sighing, through all the forest a moan, 
As if in answer to that heart so chilled and cold as 

stone. 

48 



MINES AND OTHERS 

" 'Tis all I have — do not take her, Great Power beyond 

this earth! 
Oh, why didst thou create this love long before her 

birth!" 
And the great trees shivered, and the two white faces 

there, 
Looked upward, praying, hoping an answer to their 

prayer. 

' ' Oh, mother, take my hand, and hold me close, for, see, 
He cannot leave you when at last he comes to carry 

me," 
A soft haze filled the air, a light spread far and wide. 
And music floated all around from hill to mountain side. 

''He comes," she whispered gaily, "Oh, mother, hold 

me tight!" 
And lo the spirit came, and oh the wondrous sight, 
As up and on they sped, roses fell to earth, 
And thus through Mother-Love the fairest flower had 

birth. 



49 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



IMPERFECTION. 

Dark had fallen, the clear day 
In silent breathless dreaming lay 
Asleep; and all the sky 
Looked vast and high; 
'Twas night. 

Suddenly from out the black 

Came trembling guitar notes far back, 

A prelude soft and low 

As winds that blow 

So lightly. 

Like summer air with all its sound 
Of falling water, birds around, 
With quivering notes a voice — 
Rejoice, rejoice — 
Went floating. 

It filled the space, it filled the soul. 
It crept to the stars and on did roll 
Forever, but brought to earth 
By voice and dearth 
Was I. 

Down in a courtyard very near. 
Shrill voices shrieked upon my ear 
So loudly, it drowned the song. 
For which I long 
Each day. 



50 



MINES AND OTHERS 

I smelled a rose and thought it fair 
So full of sweetness, like summer air 
Soft scented, but 'neath the leaf 
An insect, the thief 
Of flowers. 

A woman passed with face divine, 
"With every feature sculptured fine. 
Like marble. No soul was there, 
So lovely and fair — 
*Twas sad. 

A perfect woman, flower and night 
They seemed ; on each a withering blight 
Was found ; 'tis ever so — 
All is below 
Imperfect. 



51 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



REGEET. 

His path is strewn with roses, 

His life is a span without care, 

It flows between banks of pleasure, 

He has more than the world's just share. 

So say the week and unheeding, 
And they who know not the world — 
'Tis a blind for the childish complaining ; 
Can they guess to what tortures he's hurled' 

The mind is the seat of the gnawing. 
For a deed once done, which is wrong, 
In the maddest whirls of deep pleasure 
Stands suddenly out fierce and strong. 

It torments the soul and the spirit 
'Till it cries out in a breathless shriek. 
And writhes and turns in its agony, 
Without ever daring to speak. 

Outwardly winning and honored, 
Inwardly mad with regret; 
Outwardly enjoying all pleasures. 
Inwardly ensnared in its net. 

No one can judge of man — 
The face is the mask of the soul, 
As it steers its way thro' the sea. 
Strikes fiercely from weeds and the shoal. 



52 



MINES AND OTHERS 



No sufferings clinch as regret; 
Thro' life its eternal stare 
Is worse than the greatest of ills — 
The soul to itself laid bare. 

What one longs for conies at the last 
If the longing be strong and right ; 
'Tis the strength of the soul that conquers- 
The soul with immortal sight. 



63 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



LET NO MAN PUT ASUNDER. 



What God has joined together let no man put asunder, 
Therefore this wretched age of homeless life and 

blunder. 
Of womankind with husbands two 
Of men with wives all living, who 
Has said, let no man put asunder. 

What heed take they of higher source of truth and 

light. 
They stay contented for a week, and then lose sight 
That each ought to the other give, 
They say we do not have to live 
Together — so let us part — 'tis right. 

Or some together pass their time away, 

But long as they can part so comes the time, some day, 

When to the courts they quickly fly, 

And in a twinkling of an eye. 

Divorced as far as tl;^ law courts say. 

'Tis tottering, this home life which should be so pure. 
'Tis weakening, this country one time so secure. 
When the home divides so the nation falls ; 
The cause the wisest man appalls, 
Divorce with its immoral lure. 



54 



MINES AND OTHERS 

Religion ? Where ? To stamp out this degrading curse, 

Few take each other now for better or for worse, 

One church has treaded the straight way, 

It weds forever and a day, 

And ever heeds the Scripture verse. 

Marriage — it is no marriage — just immoral joy — 
A plaything for the moment till a broken toy; 
Tis weakened man, less honor and truth, 
A creature degraded and uncouth. 
An evil which some one must destroy. 



55 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 




THE DREAM OF THE PROSPECTOR. 

And he talked with the winds and the storms, 
And the rocks and the barren waste, 

As up and down mountains through valleys 
This dreaming old Prospector paced. 

The years had gone by like a day, 
And the summers and winters had passed 

Like the moon shadows out on the hills 
In the stillness of the lone vast. 

He's the spirit, the white ghost of man, 
With his hope and his longing in quest, 

He's the wandering soul of the world 
Searching through days full of zest. 

56 



MINES AND OTHERS 

Though Time had grayed his hair, 
And his dream was still a dream, 

Yet it oft brings greater joy 
Than all realities seem. 

The mountains knew his tread 
And the light of his fire at night, 

And the silence heard his pick 
As he broke the rhyolite. 

And he loved his solitude 

And knew all the beauties round, 
Drinking in the starful night 

As he lay on the sagebrush ground. 

One night he left his hills, 

And on to the desert sand 
He knew he there should find 

Somewhere in that thirsty land. 

But he wandered on and on. 
And the days grew hot and arid, 

And he forgot the water 

In the search for his treasure buried. 

And his tougue grew dry and hard, 
His eyes were staring and mad, 

And yet the search on kept him 
Just now as it always had. 



57 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 

*' Water and gold!" he yelled, 

And his hands and arms clawed the air, 

Running o'er cutting sands 

As he shouted, ''There it lies — there!" 

He saw torrents of rushing water, 

Which sank from his mad wild gaze, 
While far off it again rose upward. 

Falling in a misty haze. 

"Oh, gold!" and he dug in the sand; 
"Oh, water!" he gasped for breath. 
And falling down he dreamed 
The dreams which have wrought his death. 

The hills all turned to gold, 

The valleys to silver and lead. 
Then he hastened back to the wife 

Who long had thought him dead. 

And he folded her in his arms 

Who^d waited for years and years, 
And she cried and wept for joy 

Who'd suffered but sorrow and fears. 

And the love he'd long forgotten 

Came rushing back tenderly, 
While his little children clung round him 

And sat upon his knee. 



58 



MINES AND OTHERS 

But sudden he opened his eyes 

And saw the lone lone sand. 
*'0 God, it was not worth it,'* 

And he passed to the other land. 

And the heatened winds beat on him 

And the drifting sands covered him o'er. 

And the hills still wait for the tramp 
They will wait for evermore. 



A MOOD. 

I care naught for field or fortune. 
And yet less for man, 
Give me what I long for most — 
Let me do whate'er I can. 

List not to the laws which bind me, 
Trample me from foot to head, 
Do whatever I please, and go 
Wher'er my mood and spirit said. 

Break away from fast closed boundaries 
Cast up in the spirit's world, 
Forgef that earth with all its dullness 
Over into space be hurled. 

To live most in the present, 
Letting past in blackness sink, 
Caring naught for any future, 
Caring but to live, not think. 



59 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



THE MAN WHO WANTS IT ALL. 

Oh, he thought he was, and thoughts go far 

To make some things seem true 
To the vain man and the jealous man, 

But we see him through and through. 

A king he thought he was, poor man, 

A king by right divine. 
In the wilderness he ruled, poor man, 

Said everything is mine. 

Some groveled in the dust for him, 

Worms wiggled round his feet, 
And loftily he favors gave 

From his high and mighty seat. 

And he swore to himself a long, long swear 

No one else shall by me stand; 
I shall make worms of them all, said he, 

And be mighty in my own land. 

One day he did this and another that, 

But really no balance knew, 
As he feared for his long sought hard won rule, 

And trembled and swore himself blue. 

A one time friend came to that land — 

A greater man than he — 
And he tramped on the pride and tore out the hearY 

Of the stranger who had to be. 

60 



MINES AND OTHERS 

And the poor, poor man, if he only knew 
How they despised him through their mask, 

For bread and butter they all had to get, 
But, getting, flee far their task. 

Oh, laugh in your sleeves, oh, laugh in your sleeves, 

Humanity great and small, 
At the selfish, mean and narrow man — 

The man who wants it all. 

Be content with the world of flowers and trees, 

It is made for you all, for you all, 
'Tis the lust of power and money alone 

Which makes one poor and small. 



61 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



ILLUSIONS. 

Illusions? Did you say they are wrong? Realities? 
They are right: 

Nay, stern mother, who'er you be, dim not sweet child- 
hood's sight 

With the burden of turbulent thoughts which grow as 

the years speed on and on, 
Let not the backward gaze of time hiake youth so white 

and wan; 

Let the fairies take the tiny child to their home within 

the wood, 
Give the birds and trees their voices, let her dream as 

childhood should; 

Her fairy clan will take her to the cream-white milky 

way, 
Where giants, ogresses and dwarfs fill all the glorious 
day; 

And when she sees the falling star, 'tis an angel from 

the sky 
With another baby brother she can play with by and 

by; 

And oh, the little myths at eve, when the sun is falling 
low, 

As the eyelids begin to waver in the reddened after- 
glow, 

As the deep-felt dreams of the happy day glide into 

the dreams of night, 
And all the hours of childhood's years are but a keen 

delight. 

62 



MINES AND OTHERS 

Soon come the hours of darkness when the youth is left 
Realities, did I hear you say? "What solace will they 
find? 

When the clouds fall low and heavy on the deeply riven 

soul, 
Let the glimmer of the fairy youth from between the 

cloud rifts roll; 

Let us live on over again the fairy .ioyous life, 
With the same deep thrills and fantasies with which 
the air was rife; 

Romp in the wood and list to the fantastic tales once 

more 
Told in the mystic shadows, dim as the eves of yore; 

Simplicity is a prize which must be clung to might and 

main, 
Let not the fairy imagination ever in life quite wane, 

Let the bridge between youth and knowledge be a long 

one guarded well, 
Soon crossed — it chanced that an angel from heaven 

into depths of anguish once fell; 

It is the dreams of yesterday which makes the bright 
today, 

And tomorrow will be filled with light where imagina- 
tions play. 

Remember childhood's sweet illusions, thro all reality's 

tears. 
As fireflies flashing in blackened night, so memories 

lighting years. 

63 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



WORKING HIS WAY. 

"Oh, boys, wait for me; 
I'll be with you again: 
I'm only laid out; 
Now, go for it, men." 

And he struggled and shouted 
As up came the cage ; 
Through the darkness and black 
He was all in a rage. 



"Don't hold me, I say. 
The ball I must get," 
But three men sat on him 
"He will kill himself yet. 



>> 



And the cage echoed upward 
And swung through the shaft, 
Powder had knocked him out, 
Gotten quite daft. 

The gas from the blasting 
He'd breathed in too deep, 
And they found him a-lying 
All of a heap. 

He was only a miner. 
Working his day. 
But what did he ialk about — 
Football and play? 



64 



WIINES AND OTHERS 



He struggled and tore; 
They feared for their lives; 
But the nearer the top 
The harder he strives. 

To free himself from them, 
And they knew the deep pit 
That yawned underneath 
Below their small skip. 

But the landing was reached. 
And they dragged out their man. 
The air soon revived him, 
And his story began. 

''I'm sorry, old fellows, 
I've caused you a fright, 
But its lucky you found me 
In my hole of a plight. 

Oh, yes, I've played football; 
I'm going again 
Back to the old college, 
To play with the men. 

I've been working all summer 
In mines of the West. 
Both getting experience 
And cash with the rest. 



65 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



I need money hard 
To send me back through, 
So that is my story; 
Old pals, will it do? 

I Ve hurt my hip bad ; 

On the sick list I go ; 

You see luck's not with me. 

But the old folks won't know. 

There are loads of us fellows 
Around in the West, 
But the miners don't know us 
Among all the rest. 

We are working our way, boys, 
Working our way. 
As college for us 
Isn't nothing but play. 

But we'll get to the top, boys, 
So, pards, thank you all; 
It's hard striving upward — 
There's many a fall." 



66 



MINES AND OTHERS 



THE CALL OF THE WEST. 

The West, young in your labors, old in mysterious past. 
Young with latent energies, old in dead history vast. 
Young in the people loving you, young in your wealth 

and gains, 
Long have you called from peaks through the wail of 

your sweeping plains. 
It will reach the cities, where the souls trampled lifeless 

live ; 
It tells of its lone vastness with everything to give; 
Slowly the answer rolls through echoing hills and the 

sand, 
With the puff of the leaping engine conquering your 

land; 
You'll cry through the tossing wind from the Western 

morning sun, 
Till centuries have passed and the thread of your fate's 

been spun. 
You'll call from your mountain caverns till the echo of 

human toil 
Has flowered your flowerless deserts, and from out 

your soil 
Stolen the treasures you've hidden, and by your magic 

hand 
Marvels ne'er dreamed of till then shall spring from 

the depths of your land. 



67 



BALLADS OF WESTERN 



FAITH AND HOPE. 

When evil thoughts the human mind infest, 

And riot o'er it as if one possessed; 

And make it seem as if there were no path 

Of golden light, but only days of wrath, 

When sinking down and down into the sea 

Of blackness, through its waters suddenly 

There comes a ray, a something soft and light, 

Which dazzles for a moment Inner Sight; 

You grasp at it, but all is dark again, 

And, shuddering once more, you feel the pain ; 

But list and wait, you seem to feel it brush 

Against the spirit, then a sudden rush 

Of being borne through waters holding fast, 

When radiant light suffuses you at last. 

It is as if from ocean brine and storm 

You feel two spirits lift you into morn ; 

Like beauteous Venus rising from the sea 

And seeing naught but flowers and singing tree 

And all the world a joyous, laughing spring. 

With no dead thought that 'neath it lurks a sting ; 

Two spirits lead you dancing on and on, 

Hope with her happy laughter opens wide 

Vistas of golden color, casts aside 

The heavy clouds on hanging o'er the view, 

And you go singing down 'neath skies of blue ; 

Then Faith her sister holds your other hand, 

And you discry beyond another land, 

^^nd so between those two you seem so sure 

That now no other spirit can allure 

68 



MINES AND OTHERS 

You from the flow 'ring woods of joy sublime, 

Where naught's but music, poetry and rhyme; 

No matter if you stumble here and there 

They hold you safe from plan of any snare 

Laid by their enemies of hateful name, 

Of weakness, cowardness, and bitter shame ; 

So with those swords of strength on buckled fast 

You can keep walking, singing to the last. 

There is no turning back, no stopping now. 

What fate ordains is good, no matter how. 




fiPB BlI^^S 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



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